Touched
by IDOL HANDS
Summary: Tasteful PWP.  It’s more than what you think.  SLASH, age flexible.


**Title:** Touched

**By:** IDOL HANDS

**Rating:** Mild NC-17

**Warnings:** slash, age flexible

**Disclaimer:** The following characters are not mine, but the estate of Dahl, Burton, Depp and Highmore.

**Summary:** Tasteful PWP. It's more than what you think.

"**Sweet Dreams Are Made of Thee"**

The years had gone by and we'd developed a mutual understanding, an informal agreement neither written nor spoken. He was always welcome in my bed, not obligated and I would never force anything. Oh, but how I looked forward to those rare nights when the space next to mine was occupied!

Our friendship once awkward had quickly blossomed from one tight, fragile bud into many and then flowered in surprising and magnificent ways - a veritable garden of delights. Strange cravings developed as fruits ripened. I hungered for things I'd never desired before. For things so well presented right before my eyes, easily within reach if not thought unseemly. Would taking a bite ruin things as it had at the beginning of mankind? Or would our bond grow even stronger, more special with pleasures more intense than any confection could match?

At some point past midnight, I rolled over and there he was. My temptation. Snuck in as he usually did, too shy to ask. Back toward me, pulled into himself. I'd have relished curving my body right behind his but I learned to be patient, or it might scare him off. Didn't want that. I couldn't help these desires but I wouldn't let them destroy our friendship either. I couldn't. To be completely honest, though it's embarrassing to admit, I'd learned to sometimes satisfy myself by only having him near. One of the benefits to having a vivid imagination I suppose. He didn't seem to mind if he knew, I was rather quiet about it even when the pleasure was intense. I don't know what his exact desires are. I think he gets lonely in this vast world, the burden of responsibilities and wants company closer than that of family. But how deeply I hoped that it was my company specifically he wanted; me, _truly_.

His face looks angelic. His scent like candy. I want so badly to reach out. But I am happy to have just the company too. I am grateful for everything we've shared, even if I secretly wish for more. My life is totally different for having known this individual.

I drift back to sleep.

I awake again to the feel of a form cuddling into mine, head to my chest and shoulder. A bold move, but most certainly not unwelcome. A reward for my patience. Electricity tingles through me at his touch. No one else makes me feel this way. He lets out a contented hum as I pull him closer. Was he curious tonight?

Holding him tighter still, relishing the intimate feel of our bodies beneath our sleep clothes, I rub my face against the skin of his cheek: softer than the finest whipped mousse, the feel of it as delicate in sweetness. Downward I nuzzle, daring to press my lips on the side of his neck, below the jaw. Immediately issuing a second kiss below that.

The figure had grown still in my arms. Had I already done too much?

I pulled my head back to his face and our eyes connect briefly before he looked away. We were so close to each other and to me at least, it felt so right. I leaned down and risked pressing my lips to his. I am not rejected. It's a beautiful kiss, not deep, but no less erotic. I must be careful and slow; his anxiety forces me to savor each intimacy – to savor it. A touch of the tips of our tongues, the edge of every line of his body that I'm permitted to caress. I've started to become stiff, but still careful to control myself from over excitement.

Lips are against my chest now, mimicking the motions I'd set forth…with one new movement. A hand placed at my groin. He _is_ curious tonight. Neither of us is sure what we are doing but both of us want more. This time I hum to offer the encouragement. The fingers are inexperienced, uncertain, surprised as I am aroused further. I've begun similar explorations on his body and our kissing has become deeper in reflection, delighted, desperate noises escaping as we gasp for oxygen: rubbing and caressing in ways that abandon requirement of permission.

We are pulses and heat, skin and hearts, stars colliding in the night. He feared my rejection and I feared his, but each risked anyway – touching more than bodies. This is what touch really means, where the fear lies. I understand at the same time that I am filled with lust, as we both grow slick and slippery with need. Repeatedly stroking from top to bottom; twisting, turning, sliding, finding new points of heat and pleasure. Rubbing needs against one another, abandoning shame. Our gestures are tender and rough, our compassion guiding us to know when to issue the difference. Movements building in speed - time, sight, sound ceases. Only our touch exists.

And then it happens.

Each brings the other to the brink, to a special height of joy that feels like flying. Really it's no more than muscle spasms, contracting and releasing as intensely inside as out. I learned the mechanics through study, but the practice is quite different. When you feel so much for another person, that their pleasure brings you pleasure, when you know that the special way you feel about them is the same way they feel about you and those feelings are exclusive…then you have _reached_ paradise, not thrown it away. No one else touches him as I do, as no one else touches me as he does, the movement goes back and forth, inside and out as the act of love-making itself. That is what I've decided.

He is panting, flushed with passion, releases a small laugh, eyes staring up into nothing but seeing so much more. I hover over him with a proud smile and our eyes connect again before closing, in another gentle kiss.

He laughs again. It's a delightful, child-like sound, indicating that the whole of his being is tickled not just where I've slid down to lick him clean. His bare skin is as addicting as it is normally scarce.

I'll tell you what's really funny though. If we got caught, he's the one who'd be persecuted. But really, it is I who feels they should be accused of molestation. How appropriate that even in guilt, our feelings are mutual. It is why he resists, why he tries not to come to my bed to tempt me. Even if he is the one who gave me my own room in the first place. His intensions were unspoken as so many other mysteries about the man, as so many mysteries about my own heart. It doesn't matter. Nothing has been ever been ruined despite our repeated fears. Fear that makes every time feel like the first. This too is an exciting emotion that he, above others, has taught me to respect.

So, how we understand each other doesn't require words. It doesn't have an age or a gender, or any other mortal boundary. What we feel is in our special embrace as we drift off to sleep, weary and satisfied, awakening to new adventures in the morning.

I can think of nothing more wonderful than spending the rest of my life this way, in this silent, ever-lasting bond dedicated to intertwined pleasure.

We specialize in fantasy, but _this_, is intensely real.

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